


Bagginshield Alphabet Challenge

by HiddenKitty



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 9,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/pseuds/HiddenKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>26 ficlets for the <a href="http://bagginshieldalphabet.tumblr.com/">Bagginshield Alphabet Challenge!</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Appetites

By the time Bilbo was aware of the attention, almost all the assembled guests had fallen silent, watching him eat in amazement. It seemed quite unwarranted. After all, he had been hungry since they had left Beorn’s house, through Mirkwood and Thranduil’s dungeons, not to mention the exhausting barrel ride, and he was a hobbit. The Master of Laketown had put on a feast of welcome, and he did not lack the manners to scorn it.

Later that night, in the bed they are to share, he is put quite out of sorts again by Thorin’s amusement. “I don’t see why it’s funny,” fumed Bilbo. “My people, after all, are well known for their voracious appetites.”

All laughter ends in a sharply indrawn breath, as Bilbo’s hands sneak lower. 

“Voracious indeed,” murmurs Thorin, and Bilbo grins to himself. He doesn’t sound particularly upset.


	2. B is for Bag End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 26 ficlets for the [Bagginshield Alphabet challenge!](http://bagginshieldalphabet.tumblr.com/)

It takes months to reclaim his lost belongings and repair his abandoned smial, but at last it is almost exactly as it was when he left it that day. With a few important differences. There are several items in his dear mother’s glory box that he is disinclined to show to his neighbours or explain the history of, as yet, and on the wall of his study there hangs a map of the route to Erebor.

He has recovered most of his things, that is certain, and life in the Shire continues much as it has always done. But not everything has returned to him.

Bilbo strokes the frame of the map Thorin gave him, and does not cry. Still, of all the things he left behind on his journey, perhaps he misses his heart the most.


	3. C is for Clothes, Customs, Consorts...

Since the betrothal was made public, Bilbo has taken to wearing clothes in the Dwarven style, with a belted tunic over a sleeved shirt and trousers, although he wears those a little shorter than most and keeps his feet bare. No-one would mistake him for a dwarf, but these are his people now, and it was surprising how quickly his new outfits felt natural. It’s as if he really belongs, at last.

The wedding clothes are something quite different again. There are about fifty layers of them, all embroidered with jewels and weighing a ton. Everything has fur trim and it keeps getting in his mouth. There are even jewelled clasps on his poor, sensitive ears, and most uncomfortable those are too. He sits in his rooms while Dori fusses about him, his temper rising as he waits for Thorin.

“At bloody last,” says Bilbo, wrenching the door open himself when the knock comes. Thorin looks a little startled, and very kingly. All the gold and jewels rather suit him, whereas Bilbo feels merely ridiculous. 

“What is wrong?” asks Thorin under his breath, as they begin their walk to the great hall, where one of Dain’s nobles is waiting to officiate.

“I’m suffocating! It’s the clothes, Thorin.”

“You look...” Thorin trails off. “You do look quite warm. But very handsome, Bilbo.”

“I look an utter fool! Let’s just get this over with. The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can take all of this off,” snaps Bilbo, and then his eyes go wide as he realises what he’s said. Can he hope the guards marching beside them didn’t hear him? Oh, he’d never be that lucky. He glances up and can see them all smirking under their beards.

Thorin chuckles beside him, and leans down to whisper in his ear. “I look forward to it.”


	4. D is for Dreams, and Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (bit of a rush job, this one... hope it's not too shonky)

Thorin opens his eyes, unsure what has woken him. His chambers are silent, but for the gentle sound of Bilbo’s breathing beside him, soft in sleep. The light of the moon still streams from the small, high window above their bed. 

Then he hears it. The rushing, roaring sound of dragonfire, and the pale moonlight is suddenly red and gold with flame, licking down towards them both with no chance of escaping it. Smaug has returned, he did not die and he has come back to destroy Erebor once again. There was never any hope, this is Thorin’s doom, to watch everything he loves burn, and he can never escape it.

Thorin sits up, heart racing. The fire is gone. It was just a dream, but the room around him is eerily similar and hard to trust. 

Still half-asleep, Bilbo’s hand reaches out reassuringly to pat Thorin’s thigh. “It’s all right,” he mumbles, “You’re all right.” 

Thorin catches the hand in his own, and lies back down, pulling Bilbo into his arms. It wakes them both entirely. Bilbo performs that extraordinary trick with his nose, where his face scrunches up entirely and his chin describes a sort of circle. There should be a name for that gesture, thinks Thorin, but then again perhaps there shouldn’t. It is unique, like his hobbit.

“Thorin?” asks Bilbo, blinking.

“A dream,” he replies, not wanting to say more. The dreams are always the same, where Smaug reappears to take everything Thorin has managed to rebuild. Oin tells him it’s in part because his memories of Smaug’s death are so hazy, lost as he was in gold sickness at the time. At least they don’t come as often now.

Bilbo makes a soft noise of understanding, and rests his head against Thorin’s shoulder. They are both asleep again before too long. Thorin slips back into the darkness, as deep as the heart of Erebor, and this time, safe in his hobbit’s care, he does not dream.


	5. E is for Erebor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are getting longer...

The mountain is in ruins, but it will be great again one day, and it is all he has to offer. Thorin is painfully aware that cold stone, jewels and the searing heat of furnaces would not tempt most hobbits to stay, but Mr Baggins is a very singular hobbit, and Thorin cannot help but hope. 

He negotiates with Balin for one whole day without meetings in order to show Bilbo what still remains of Erebor. They visit the various Quarters being repaired, scaffolding crossing their tall rows of balconies, and the Forges, already ringing with the sound of hammers. He presents Bilbo with the great bathing halls, fed by hot springs and still functioning despite a century abandoned. They cross broad walkways that span vast mines, and grand chambers, and every so often, the geometric architecture is interrupted by some beautiful mineral seam that has been left untouched to show the raw, glittering beauty of the stone. 

Thorin is reminded once again how much he loves this mountain. Bilbo makes suitably awed noises as they walk around, but it may be simply hobbitish good manners.

Last of all, he takes Bilbo up towards the royal quarters, to show him one room in particular. It is not large, but not small, the vaulted ceiling lower than most. There is a door in each of the four walls, but is the one that they see as they enter, the one that faces South-West, that is special. It is glazed with sheets of thin crystal set into leaded panes.

Bilbo walks towards it as if drawn by the daylight, and when he touches the handle the door swings away from his hand. It leads out to a wide terrace of earth, not stone. 

“It’s a garden!”

“These were my grandmother’s rooms,” says Thorin, enjoying the open wonder on Bilbo’s face. He has not misjudged here, at least. “When I was very young, and she was minded to permit it, I used to play in this garden. She grew flowers here. Red ones, I don’t know what they were called. When the Elves came to see my grandfather, she would invite them to take tea with her here whenever negotiations became... tense. I think she liked to see their faces when they saw the view.”

The edge of the terrace is ringed with a low wall, but the drop on the other side of it is two hundred feet or more, and the view encompasses all of Dale, Esgaroth and stretches Westward towards the Misty Mountains. Bilbo comes to stand beside him and takes a deep breath of astonishment.

“She sounds marvellous,” grins Bilbo, glancing up at him. He doesn’t look afraid, and Thorin is thankful to see it. He remembers several Elves from his childhood who had turned green and stepped quickly away. 

“She was,” agrees Thorin. He clears his throat, wondering if this is the right moment to ask. “If you wished to remain in Erebor for a time, Mister Baggins, I would offer these rooms to you.”

“Me?” Bilbo looks astonished. “Well,” he says after a moment, and half to himself, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I’d like to see how things go, for a bit, if I may. Yes. Yes please, Thorin. Thank you.”

Thorin nods gravely, hoping his face does not reveal too obviously his pleasure and relief. He does not need to mention, just yet, that as his grandfather was the king, Thorin’s own rooms will be next door to these. There will be time to discuss that later.


	6. F is for Frodo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonical deaths in this one, sorry. :(

Every so often, Bilbo will work on his book, but really he has become quite adept at not thinking about the quest, and it’s slow going, especially towards the end of the story. The years stretch into decades, and before he knows it, he is Mad Baggins, the queer hobbit who keeps too much to himself. It’s a fair epithet in many ways. 

The seasons turn, and turn again, and even the Shire must change and grow. He knows young Frodo by sight, certainly, and the boy seems perfectly nice, for a faunt. It is a fault he will readily admit, but Bilbo has never really been one for faunts. It was a great shame when the boy’s parents died. Bilbo is glad to hear the lad has been taken in by relatives.

It’s when Bilbo is on his way home from market one day that he pauses to see where the snuffling sound under the bridge is coming from. “Are you all right?” he calls to the small, hunched figure whose toes trail in the water.

“Yes, Uncle Bilbo,” sniffs the lad, and looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Just a touch of hayfever, I think.”

In the shadow under the stone, Bilbo is suddenly struck by how blue his young nephew’s eyes are. And how dark is his curly hair. It tugs at something long buried, a life imagined that never could have come to pass. He is old, and tired, and for the first time in a very long while he realises that he is lonely. 

“Well now,” he says slowly. “I think my mother used to recommend chamomile tea for hayfever. I believe I have some at home. Would you like to come for a cup of tea? I baked biscuits yesterday, as well, and I shan’t be able to eat them all myself.”

He reaches out a hand, and Frodo takes it.


	7. G is for Goats

The goat was large, and snowy white, and had two enormous, clearly dangerous horns atop its head. It chewed slowly on a mouthful of grass, regarding Bilbo with one weird yellow eye.

“Will you at least try, Bilbo?” asked Thorin reproachfully. Bilbo switched his glare from the goat before him to the King under the Mountain, who seemed equally unimpressed.

“I will,” said Bilbo. “I will, but upon your head be it, Thorin Oakenshield. I’ll be expecting a very fancy, expensive funeral, thanks very much.”

The Royal Goatkeeper, a dwarf named Halda, chuckled audibly into her beard. It wasn’t as though Bilbo could glare at all three of them at once, so he set his jaw, walked up to the goat, and attempted to swing himself into the wretched beast’s saddle. 

It didn’t work the first time. Or the second. The third time, Thorin offered to give him a boost, and instead he flew right over the bloody goat and landed ungracefully on the other side. 

Ponies had been bad enough. Lady Yavanna had never meant hobbits to get about by other means than their own two sturdy feet, thought Bilbo grimly, making yet another try at mounting the increasingly jittery goat. 

It was a genuine shock to find himself astride the goat this time, and he had to admit, it was reasonably comfortable, not so wide as a pony’s. It stomped a hoof and he kept his seat instinctively, moving with the animal without effort or fear. Bilbo couldn’t quite explain why the distance to the ground didn’t seem as perilous as expected, or what made him sure, somehow, that his steed was sure-footed enough to take care of its rider. The goat tossed its head and glanced back at him and he could almost swear it meant to say _“See? Nothing to worry about, I’ve got you.”_

Bilbo laughed aloud, disbelieving, and patted the goat’s neck. He grinned at Thorin, who grinned back in delight.

“What’s its name?” he asked, and Halda shrugged. 

“She’s just Goat,” she said. “I can’t be giving them all names.”

“I’ll call her… Pansy. I had a great-aunt called Pansy,‘ said Bilbo cheerfully. He saw Halda snort and Thorin smile, but as far as he could tell Pansy didn’t object, and really hers was the only opinion that mattered.

\--

A few months later, feeding Pansy a few carrots from his garden - her favourite - Bilbo noticed that Pansy had acquired another name. It wasn’t a word he knew.

“Thorin,” he asked, later that night. “What does _Madaffatûna_ mean? Only I heard Halda saying it to Pansy, and I just wondered...”

His husband stared, and promptly burst out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whilst rifling through the Dwarrow Scholar’s dictionary (believe me, I’m so fun at parties), I discovered the word _Madaffatûna_ , which apparently means “she who continues to be(come) fat”. I love that there’s a WORD for that.
> 
> [eta] also I drew fanart for my own story. Pathetic is as pathetic does, I suppose. :D
> 
> http://ahiddenkitty.tumblr.com/post/131811260798/literally-cannot-remember-when-i-last-drew-fanart


	8. H is for Harp

Princess Dís had arrived back to Erebor with another convoy of Dwarves from Ered Luin the night before, and as a result there had been a great deal to organise that day. 

Whenever new settlers arrived, Bilbo did his best to help out wherever he could. Mostly it was a genuine desire to be useful, but he also found showing his bare, beardless face around as early on as possible made it easier for some Dwarves to get over the shock of his presence in their mountain, especially since he had married their King. He noted down requirements, gave directions, and handed out honey biscuits to the dwarflings. It had been a long journey for them, and a honey biscuit couldn’t hurt.

The King himself Bilbo had sent away several hours before to spend a little family time with his sister, since Dís had been excitedly talking about some gift she had brought him. It was an excellent excuse. Bilbo knew too well that given the chance, Thorin would run himself ragged, attempting to oversee every detail of every family’s arrangements.

Now it was past midnight, and everyone had been greeted, fed, and provided with a sleeping space, however temporary. Bilbo crept at last into his own room, so as not to disturb Thorin, already lifting his hands to his buttons when he realised that through the connecting door he could hear music.

He walked to the door as silently as only a hobbit can, and pushed it very gently open. 

Dís had taken his usual place on the chaise beside the fire, and opposite her was Thorin, eyes closed, with a very large harp resting against his shoulder. His fingers plucked the strings with a delicacy that Bilbo could scarcely believe. Thorin’s crown and outer robes had been discarded, and he sat in his shirtsleeves, leaning into his instrument with such peace in his expression, impossibly handsome in the firelight.

The harp was very unlike the Elven ones that Bilbo had seen before. It was carved in some wood so dark it was almost black, inlaid with gold knotwork tracery along the straight, broad column and hexagonal crown. The sweep of its neck looked more like the curve of a bull’s than a swan’s. The music Thorin drew from it was similarly un-Elven, but Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t even more beautiful, since it was so very unexpected. It was mournful and full of odd harmonies, and it sounded very old. Quiet and delicate, it filled Bilbo’s heart to the brim, reminding him once again how very much he loved this dwarf.

At the end of the piece Thorin opened his eyes, and saw Bilbo watching from the doorway. He straightened up at once.

“Bilbo!” cried Dís in delight, turning to greet him. “You’ve joined us at last. Come and listen.”

“That was beautiful,” said Bilbo, unable to look away from his husband, even to greet his dear friend Dís. “I never knew. You’re wonderful. I could listen to you play for hours, Thorin, please, don’t stop yet.”

“Years without practice and he’s still just as good,” agreed Dís. “Isn’t it sickening? I knew even if his old harp had survived the dragon, the strings would be perished, but he was always so fond of playing as a child. Remarkable that such a great brute could do something so pretty.”

Thorin looked surprised at their praise, then uncomfortable. It wasn’t until his sister called him a brute that a small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Dís patted the space beside her and Bilbo sat down, all tiredness forgotten as Thorin began to play once more.


	9. I is for Iglishmêk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one is my favourite so far. :D

“What are they talking about?” asks Bifur, when his cousin Bofur sits down beside him that night. He points over to where Mister Baggins and the King are in deep conversation by the fire.

“Ah, nothing much,” replies Bofur in speech. “You know what they’re like.”

“Does the hobbit know?”

This time Bofur answers with his hands. “Know what?”

“That the King is in love with him,” says Bifur. It’s been clear to all of them for weeks now, and yet nothing seems to have happened yet.

“He must do! Sure he’s as bad,” signs Bofur, laughing. “You see him listening to Thorin sometimes and his eyes glaze over, like all he can think about is getting his ankles pinned by his ears and buggered ‘till he sings.”

The hobbit has noticed their conversation and, as usual, is watching the Iglishmêk signs with fascination. Suddenly his face turns bright scarlet, and it occurs to Bifur that the signs, though secret, are not always terribly subtle.

“What on earth are you two saying about me?” he splutters, and Thorin twists around to glare at them.

“Oh, nothing about you at all!” says Bofur cheerily, in speech, repeating the gesture. “Just a wee discussion about mining. Getting deep into a seam, you know.”

Mister Baggins looks mollified, but Thorin’s face is like thunder. Bifur sighs. His cousin is a reprobate who will get himself banished one day.


	10. J is for Jealousy

Thorin rolled over and punched his pillow, hard, as if blaming it for his inability to rest. He never slept well in Rivendell, with the Elves’ incessant warbling day and night, and all the wafting banners and curtains that kept him constantly wary of intruders.

“Thorin?” called a soft, familiar voice, and this intruder at least was welcome. Thorin sighed in relief as Bilbo hopped up to sit beside him on the too-tall bed.

“Our smirking host has released you at last,” said Thorin, reaching out for his beloved.

“Hmm. Lord Elrond is my friend,” said Bilbo, not meeting his eyes.

“Your friend,” grumbled Thorin. There seemed no need to speak of Elves, now they were finally apart from them, and in their rooms alone. As far as Thorin was concerned the entire race could go drown in the sea they professed to love so much.

“And an important ally of Erebor,” said Bilbo, with an edge in his voice that Thorin recognised. He stayed his hand, mere inches from Bilbo’s waist, and waited. “Under the circumstances, I really don’t see why you needed to be quite so horrible to him.”

“He sat beside you all evening, stealing your company and taking all your attention. I did not like it,” said Thorin, hoping that could be the end of this. He was entirely wrong, alas.

“You didn’t like…? In all my days, Thorin, I have never heard anything so absurd!”

“Some might call it romantic,” muttered Thorin, his excuses feeling weak even as he spoke them.

“Romantic? You’ll have to help me there, Thorin, is that some Dwarven term for ugly, mistrustful, and downright rude?” asked Bilbo, eyes flashing with anger. It was a great shame his husband was so desirable when roused with passion, thought Thorin sadly. 

He scratched his jaw, grumbling, all too aware that his cause was lost. “You spoke for a long while.”

“We did, yes! And mostly about you! He told me how glad he was to see you prove so great a king, how much nobler you seemed than your Grandfather, already. He asked me if I was content, and I told him, Thorin, I told him that I was the happiest husband in all of Arda, because of you.”

“Bilbo,” sighed Thorin, ashamed.

“Well, of course I shall have to go back and tell him how wrong I was,” sniffed Bilbo, bending his neck nonetheless to receive Thorin’s tentative kisses. “If you would just release me I shall be off and do it now.”

“Never,” growls Thorin, wrapping his arms firmly around Bilbo’s middle. “I am sorry, Bilbo. Forgive me.”

“Ohh,” sighs Bilbo, melting a little against him. “Well. Perhaps I might. If you promise never to be so silly again. And you can think of some way to make it up to me.”


	11. K is for Kingsfoil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a Florist Thorin au that floats around and I've always rather liked it. I suspect that's what inspired this one. :)

Bilbo takes care of the vegetable garden, since he is by far the better cook. 

Thorin takes care of the flowers, to everyone’s surprise but his own. He had thought the Dwarven love for beautiful things was better known, as he never tires of pointing out to his husband, though Bilbo may roll his eyes at the compliment. There is much to learn, and it keeps Thorin busy and content. Still he always asks Bilbo to check his plans for planting before he goes ahead, especially after the Primula incident, when the gardens of Bag End had accidentally declared an undying passion for Bilbo’s cousin’s wife.

Growing flowers pleases Thorin. It combines hard work, delicate attention to detail, and an eye for beauty, all things that he has always enjoyed. There is something new, too, about watching things grow. It brings him a great peace, and that was a thing he had rarely known until he came to the Shire.

Usually.

He had not realised he was growling quite so loud until Bilbo approached, wiping his hands on a doily. Or perhaps a teatowel. Thorin remains unsure of the difference. 

“Is something the matter?” asks Bilbo. 

Furiously Thorin tugs another handful of white flowers from between the nasturtiums and tosses it over his shoulder. The day has grown warm, and there is sweat under his hair, and still this bed is only half-tended. “This blasted weed! How many times must I uproot it before it will finally die? By Durin’s beard, it must have more lives than Azog.”

“Ah,” says Bilbo sympathetically, although the edge of amusement isn’t hard to hear. “Well, they do call it Kingsfoil, I suppose.”

It takes Thorin a moment to understand the joke. It feels a long time since he was a King. “Were I King of this garden,” he says wryly, sitting back on his heels, “I would banish this weed very happily.”

“Poor Thorin. You’ll have to settle for being King Under the Hill.”

“Nor even that,” says Thorin, setting his tools aside for the moment and standing up to look at Bilbo properly. There is a pale smudge of flour in his hair, and Thorin brushes it away, tucking a sprig of Kingsfoil in its place. Perhaps there is some use for the vile plant. “I am merely your loyal subject.”

Bilbo laughs, throwing an arm around Thorin’s waist, leaning up to kiss him. “Well then, your King commands you to come inside and have a rest. I’ve got a batch of scones cooling, and you look as if you deserve one.”


	12. L is for Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filth! :D

The sun was barely up as Ori ambled through the doors of Erebor’s Great Library, but already he could see a few lamps lit. Mister Baggins must have arrived before him, as usual.

“Morning, Mister Baggins!” he called, as he turned the corner to the Scrivener’s section, and sure enough a familiar, beardless face popped up from behind one of the large stone desks.

“Ori!” said Mister Baggins, looking flustered. “Ori, you’re here. In the Library. Are you early?”

“A little,” said Ori, glancing over. Mister Baggins sounded rather hoarse. “Is something wrong?” 

“No, no,” said Mister Baggins, and then his eyes went suddenly wide. “No,” he said again, more firmly. “Definitely not. No.”

“Are you sure?” Ori took a step closer. It wouldn’t do to have the King’s Consort getting sick.

“Stop!” yelled Mister Baggins, squirming in his seat, his eyes squeezed shut. His face had turned bright scarlet to the tips of his ears. “Oh stop, please, do stop.”

“All right,” said Ori, thoroughly confused. “Should I… perhaps I should fetch Master Oin?”

“Ohh, you confounded...” said Mister Baggins, almost a moan, and then he looked up again, his eyes very bright. “Yes. Ori, you’re a genius. Please go and fetch Master Oin at once.”

Ori didn’t need telling twice. He set off at a run, with Mister Baggins calling out behind him, “It’s not an, oh, an emergency though, please, tell him not, not to hurry!”

It sounded like an emergency to Ori. Something was clearly very wrong, and Ori was barely at the door when he heard a strangled, choking yelp. He turned back, properly panicked now. What if the hobbit was having a fit? 

He ran back the way he’d come, wondering what he would find when he looked around the corner. Ori had paused, eyes closed, summoning up all his courage, when he heard voices.

“Well, that was entirely too close for comfort,” said Mister Baggins’ voice, sounding perfectly normal, if a little breathless.

“It was your idea,” replied another, deeper voice, even more familiar. King Thorin.

Ori stifled a yelp of his own, horrified realisation dawning. 

“It was a terrible idea,” said Mister Baggins, and by Durin’s beard, he thought he could hear kissing noises now. Mister Baggins was even giggling. “Let’s never do it again.”

Well, that at least was a relief. All the same, Ori thought, shaking his head in dismay, it would be a while before he went to the Library so early again.


	13. M is for Mithril

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon deaths again

When Bilbo leaves Bag End for the last time, he packs light, leaving behind almost everything. Lord Elrond has a fine library, after all, and there is not much else he needs. He takes Sting, of course, and wears his Mithril shirt, but then it would be silly not to. The world is not so safe that an elderly hobbit can walk through it alone without a few precautions.

For similarly practical reasons, when Frodo arrives, Bilbo gives his sword and armour to his nephew. He is very sorry that the boy has been given such a dreadful task, but perhaps those gifts will be of use, as they once were to Bilbo. Frodo is a dear, beloved hobbit and a brave lad who deserves any help his old Uncle can offer. That’s reason enough for letting go of the shirt.

It was the last thing he owned that Thorin had once touched.

Bilbo waves from a balcony as the company set out, and returns to his rooms, to weep.


	14. N is for Noses

“I like your nose,” says Bilbo one night in bed. His finger traces along the length of Thorin’s profile reverently.

“I like your nose,” replies Thorin, which appears to be the wrong thing to say. Bilbo scoffs at him.

“I’m serious, Thorin. Your nose is very handsome. Very regal.”

“I too am serious,” says Thorin, shifting sideways on the pillows a little. “I like the way it twitches when you are thinking.”

It twitches at that very moment, and a second later Bilbo’s hand is covering his face, laughing softly at himself. “I never know I’m doing that,” he admits. “So I like your nose because you’re so handsome, and you like mine because it twitches. That sounds about right.”

More truthfully, Thorin would say he adores Bilbo’s nose, but he adores everything about his husband, and sometimes saying so seems to make him uncomfortable. So Thorin will settle for this, and the grin on Bilbo’s face, and placing a soft kiss on Bilbo’s wonderful nose, in hopes that will convey it well enough.


	15. O is for Oak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys, this is my number one favourite out of all the ones I've written so far. :D

The light filtering through the leaves is pretty, thinks Thorin, looking up at the tree that grows over Bag End. The sun sets behind it every night, painting the road and the garden gold, setting off the warm glow in the windows of their little home, and catching on the bright curls of his husband’s hair as he pokes his head out from behind the round green door.

“Are you going to stand out there all night, Thorin?” asks Bilbo.

“No, indeed,” grins Thorin, making his way up the curved steps. “I was only wondering what sort of tree that is, up there?”

Bilbo stops dead in the hallway, turning on his heel and staring at Thorin hard. “Our tree?”

“Yes?”

“Thorin Oakenshield, do you mean to tell me that after all this time, you don’t know what an oak tree looks like?”

“Oh,” says Thorin, feeling slightly sheepish.

“Next you’ll be telling me you don’t know where acorns come from,” says Bilbo, reaching forward to flicking the little bead that caps his marriage braid, set with a tiny jewelled acorn, and Thorin smiles, shrugging. They’re a kind of nut, he thinks? And you have to soak them a long time before cooking, and Bilbo makes a wonderful honey cake with them. Surely it doesn’t matter where they come from.

Bilbo’s expression changes, his eyes narrowing. “You do know where acorns come from, don’t you? ...Thorin?”


	16. P is for Poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nudity/sex mentions!

They are in bed, and naked, and Bilbo’s hands glide over Thorin’s back and downwards, seizing greedy handfuls of his body. It is rare that they have a whole evening to themselves like this, and Thorin intends to make the most of it.

“Oh, heavens, Thorin, your arse is like a poem,” groans Bilbo, grasping it in both hands as he arches up against him. 

The insult is unexpected and stings. It isn’t until Thorin pulls back and sees Bilbo’s face that he realises it may not have been meant as such.

“Was that intended as flattery?” asks Thorin, and Bilbo blinks up at him, clearly bewildered.

“Was it… not flattery?” He looks so helplessly confused that Thorin forgives him at once, surging forward for more kisses.

“Dwarves do not use poetry,” he breathes into Bilbo’s neck, which is a mistake. He had intended to close the subject, but he should have known his hobbit would not be satisfied with so little. Bilbo squirms back into the pillows, away from Thorin’s reach, and he growls under his breath. More at himself, for letting this interruption happen.

“Wait, no no no, I’ve read Dwarven poetry,” insists Bilbo, his hard prick wagging distractingly as he shakes his head. “In translation, of course, but Lord Elrond loaned me some from his library, I remember one in particular, called Gror’s Labour, about the first dwarves in the Iron Hills. It was… well, it definitely wasn’t Elvish.”

The moment has been lost. Thorin falls sideways, against the bed, pushing his hair back from his face. It galls him, to know that his people’s culture has been misrepresented yet again, but he is a Dwarf, and accustomed to it. He sighs.

“That is not a poem. It is a song,” he explains.

“A song? It has a tune?” asks Bilbo eagerly, rolling onto his belly beside Thorin. Always so curious, this hobbit.

“No,” says Thorin. “It is a song without music.”

There is a pause. Is it enough? Thorin glances over, cautiously, to see if his affections will be welcome again yet. Bilbo has his lips pursed in thought, which is not a good sign.

“A song without music,” says Bilbo pensively. “A song that rhymes, and relates some story or important event. Is it ever read aloud?”

Thorin nods. Of course it is read aloud. All songs are meant to be heard.

“So… why isn’t it a poem, exactly?”

“Poetry is for Elves,” explains Thorin, and even as he says it, he knows how this will be received. Bilbo’s laughter bursts out of him in peals of merriment so infectious that Thorin must smile too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...nb, I am thinking of doing a smutty one for "X" that would push the rating up to Mature. Would that be welcomed or might it offend?


	17. Q is for Quarrel

“I’m not wearing that,” says Bilbo flatly.

Thorin looks confused. “It will fit, try it.”

The fit is hardly the issue, and Bilbo can’t be sure that Thorin isn’t being deliberately thick-headed about this. “There’s no need, I’m not wearing it.”

“Why not?”

On a stand in the corner of their receiving rooms is set a hobbit-sized suit of golden armour. It is extremely fancy, with multiple bulging sections around each joint, and the sort of fearsomely swollen breastplate that makes even Thorin look a bit like a turkey sometimes. Beside it on a chest lie the various bits of padding required to go underneath, covering the wearer’s skin almost from chin to ankles. The mere thought of wearing all that sets off a cold sweat on the back of Bilbo’s neck. It’s very Dwarven indeed and Bilbo doesn’t even need to try it on to see how he will look, like a gilded potato. He hasn’t the stature or the shoulders to pull off such things.

“It will not be heavy,” Thorin assures him, managing to grasp the wrong end of the stick yet again. “It is ceremonial, too light for battle, you would only use it for Court occasions. Not every day.”

“So it’s armour that doesn’t even work?” Bilbo shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not. It’s ridiculous.”

“It is traditional.”

“It is ridiculous.”

Thorin scowls. “I would have the Dwarves of this mountain see that you are strong.”

“I’ve said it before, I’m not a warrior. I am a hobbit.”

“You will shame me before our people,” grumbles Thorin, a frown creasing his forehead. Bilbo gapes at him, a hot wave of fury sweeping over him before he can control it.

“Shame you? You’re ashamed of me?” he spits, his sudden fury all the more bitter for touching on secret fears. 

“That is not what I meant!” Thorin growls, as if Bilbo is merely being contrary. “The Dwarves of this mountain deserve to be led by those they can respect!””

“And they’ll respect me in that mockery of a costume, will they? You’ve got a rather poor opinion of them, Thorin.”

“No,” says Thorin, his voice low but his eyes flashing anger. He takes one step forward. “I will not hear such insult, even from you.”

“Or what?” asks Bilbo, voice rising. “What will you do, Thorin?”

Thorin straightens up, eyes wide, as if horrified. He bows his head and walks away, towards a chair, and sits down with a heavy thud. The rush of anger is fading, now, and Bilbo feels rather guilty. It’s a silly thing to argue over, but then, these are Dwarves, and they are nothing if not endlessly silly. Perhaps this matters more than he realised.

He steps cautiously between Thorin’s knees, and strokes his hands over the beautiful black hair. “It’s a tradition, then? For the King and his Consort to wear armour at court.”

“It was,” says Thorin wrly, leaning back into Bilbo’s touch. “Peace, Bilbo. I will not force your hand. I am sorry.”

“Well, me too. For shouting.” He thinks hard, pulling Thorin’s head against his chest, playing with the long strands of Thorin’s hair. He still doesn’t want to wear the wretched armour. “What about that Mithril shirt? Would that do? Fancy and functional, and won’t make me look like I’m playing at Dwarf dressing-up.”

Thorin sits back, his expression clearing. “I suppose...” he says. “It is but a shirt, however. Would you not wear the vambraces also?”

Bilbo sighs. “Fine. Those are the arm bits, yes?”

“The arm-bits,” nods Thorin, and at last, there’s a smile on his face. Just a small one. “Perhaps the greaves?” 

“On my legs?” Bilbo scrunches up his face. He’s not keen on wearing much below the knees, really. But Thorin is looking at him with such hope, he gives in. “Fine. Greaves and vambraces, and a mithril shirt. None of the other stuff, mind.”

“Of course not,” says Thorin, wrapping Bilbo in his arms. HIs next words are muffled against Bilbo’s chest. “Except the crown. And the sword belt.”

Bilbo groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ridiculous, I can't even make them have an argument for more than 30 seconds. I TRIED.


	18. R is for Ravens

The Ravens of Erebor were a proud race with a noble history, and emphatically not pets. The Hobbit of Erebor however was a law unto himself, so perhaps it was no surprise that his raven behaved likewise.

When Thorin had presented him with the bird, it had been named Kalak. Bilbo had declared the name sounded like a cough, and by the end of the day had rechristened it Tobold. 

“May you fly as free as Old Toby’s smoke,” said Bilbo grandly, and Tobold had preened delightedly. Instead of staying in the Eyrie, Bilbo had a large birdbox built near the door of his gardens and Thorin would often come upon the two of them chatting idly while Bilbo tended his plants.

“Leave those worms alone, Toby,” scolds Bilbo, flapping a hand. “I’ve told you, worms aren’t for eating. I need them.”

“Sorry,” croaks the bird. _"Goheno nin."_

Thorin frowns. He steps out into the garden just as Bilbo is replying. 

_“Avaro naeth,”_ chuckles Bilbo, but the smile drops from his face as he sees Thorin approach.

“Are you teaching that bird Elvish?”

It should be impossible for a bird to look guilty, but somehow Tobold does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin translations:
> 
>  _"Goheno nin"_ \- forgive me  
>  _“Avaro naeth”_ \- don’t worry


	19. S is for Swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (...and Stupid, Sexy Dwarves)

It isn’t a hot bath, but it is at least a body of water shallow enough that Bilbo needn’t fear drowning. Although judging by the sounds of splashing and yelling coming from around the corner, the Dwarves are doing their best.

Bilbo tuts to himself and scrambles back out onto the bank beside his clothes, reaching into his pack for a comb. He settles down on a rock to try to get some of the last few weeks’ worth of grit, mud and thorns out of his feet. It’s a largely futile attempt.

He faintly hears Fili’s voice yelling “It’s deep enough to swim in the middle!” and looks up to see the King’s nephews rounding the corner in a race. They stop, laughing, just past where Bilbo sits, and go back to squirting river water into each other’s faces with cupped hands. He’s pretty sure they haven’t seen him, and he certainly doesn’t want to get wet again, so he simply keeps very quiet.

Dwarves are huge, thinks Bilbo, not for the first time. They may not be tall, but they make all the Elves and Men that Bilbo has seen look like a strong wind might snap them. 

“Uncle!” cries Kili. “Bet you can’t catch us!”

Oh, no. Bilbo shrinks against his rock, eyes wide, and sure enough, around the corner comes Thorin, his strong arms cutting through the water in sweeping strokes. When he reaches his nephews, he emerges from the river with silvery beads flowing over his dark hair and broad shoulders like some kind of Valar. Bilbo feels faintly sick.

“I will race you back and we shall see,” he says warmly, with one of his rare smiles, and that only makes it worse. 

Kili glances over at Bilbo, grinning, and Thorin follows his gaze. The smile falls from his face and they stare awkwardly at one another for a moment. Bilbo should say something, but his tongue is thick in his mouth and he can’t summon a single word.

“We should let Mister Baggins have his privacy,” says Thorin, turning away. 

He pushes Kili’s shoulder gently, and Fili shouts “Go!” and the three of them are in the water again, swimming away. Bilbo doesn’t bother to see who’s winning. He rubs a hand across his face and groans. He is in so, so much trouble.


	20. T is for Tauriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Tauriel hate, you can keep it to yourself and skip this one, please and thank you.

All her life, Tauriel’s love has been for the skies, for starlight and the thin air above the clouds. Erebor cannot help but be strange to her.

It is hard, to remember that the darkness of the mountain is not the same as that of Mirkwood under the spiders. She knows Kili suffers likewise when their duties lead them to the Woodland Realm, where he was once a prisoner. It matters not. Their love is enough, she tells him, and he repeats it back to her, mouthing his adoration over her skin, setting her all aflame with love. For all their promises, she knows it troubles them both.

Only the little Hobbit, Bilbo, the King’s Consort now, manages to reassures her. She sits beside him in the gardens the King under the Mountain commanded be made for him, with the one other soul here who does not find this an easy home.

“We suffer for these dwarves, you know,” he says, pouring her tea. “And they know, too, just not what to do about it. Thorin forged me a rose out of gold once. Very pretty, but hardly the point. I bet Kili offered to put silver stars on the ceiling for you or something.”

It had been diamonds, but Tauriel is not about to tell anyone that. She smiles into her tea and shakes her head when Bilbo offers her another scone. At her refusal, he shrugs and takes one himself instead.

“You know,” says Bilbo, munching thoughtfully. “There are often ways around these things. After all, the mountain has a summit, doesn’t it? What if your quarters could be there?”

The mere thought is a spark of bright, shooting hope in Tauriel’s heart. There are already rooms up there, she knows, where she and Kili spent one beautiful night once. Parts of the vaulted ceilings had fallen open to the sky after the ruin of the dragon, and neither of them, she is sure, had ever thought to make them their own. She clasps Bilbo’s hand, unable to find words for her gratitude. 

No surprise that the King looks on his hobbit with such soft, fond eyes. Where would any of them be without him, she wonders.


	21. U is for Under

There is something wrong with Bilbo’s garden. Thorin is sure of it, he just can’t quite put his finger on what it is. Even the usually pleasant distraction of watching the view while his husband does something called “weeding” cannot shake him of the thought. He frowns, and at just that moment Bilbo glances over.

“Oh dear, my King,” he says. “What’s Thranduil done now?”

Thorin shakes his head. It has come to him. He points accusingly at a corner where a small tree appears to be tied, spread-eagled, across a trellis. “Flowers,” he says. “Red ones, with spikes. There were flowers in that corner, I am certain of it.”

The grin slides off Bilbo’s face and is replaced by a very guilty look. “Ah. Well, the thing is, roses are very tricky. I always left mine to Hamfast, and besides I don’t think the climate suited them this far East. And we didn’t have any apple trees, which seemed a shame when they’re so expensive in Dale.”

“You replaced them,” says Thorin slowly. “Ori told me they meant Love.”

Bilbo grimaces, setting down his tools at once and hurrying over to where Thorin sits. “That’s true, and it was very, very romantic. But you love my apple pies, don’t you?”

“I do,” agrees Thorin, relieved that there is no more sinister reason for the change. The Hobbit language of flowers perplexed him enormously when Ori tried to explain it. 

“Well, good. And you see, I love making them for you.” Bilbo twitches his nose for a moment, hesitating before he continues. “And carrot cake, and radish salads, and ginger buns, and, well. All sorts of things.”

Thorin looks over Bilbo’s shoulder, at the flowerbed he has just been working on. Now that he pays attention, there seem to be far fewer flowers there, also. And the plants are all in rows, very neat. “Have you… have you replaced all the flowers?”

“Um. As a matter of fact, yes. I know you meant well, Thorin, but truly, I haven’t the green thumb for flowers. I thought, since it’s my garden, maybe you wouldn’t mind if I replanted with fruit and vegetables instead.” Bilbo looks pained. “Honestly I thought you wouldn’t notice. It’s been nearly six months, in my defence.”

Thorin is confounded. “But Hobbits like flowers!” he says.

“Dwarves like rowdy, bawdy drinking songs, and isn’t that your favourite thing to do?”

It is a good point. Thorin considers. “This makes you happy?” he asks.

“Oh, Thorin. You make me happy. This is a nice bonus,” smiles Bilbo, clasping Thorin’s hand in both his own smaller ones. He sighs, his head tilted to one side. “I know all of you worry about me living under a mountain, but I lived under a hill my whole life, before you dragged me out of it. In fact I was probably the least out-of-doors Hobbit in the whole West Farthing. I stayed in Bag End, with my books, and my armchair, and of course I kept a kitchen garden, but I’d eat my dinner by the fire, just as you and I do now. I’m not dying from lack of sunlight, whatever Ori’s been telling you.”

“Like your carrots, and radishes,” says Thorin thoughtfully, and Bilbo gives him a quizzical look.

“Hmm. No, you’ve lost me there.”

“They thrive underground. Not like flowers,” he explains, and Bilbo blinks in surprise.

“I’ve never thought of it like that, but you’re right. You’re right,” he says, and grins.


	22. V is for Victory

Thorin doesn’t see where Bilbo has gone, too busy watching Fili’s face as Azog brandishes him aloft by the neck. So he doesn’t see where the rock has come from as it flies through the air and connects firmly with the pale Orc’s eye. Neither does Azog, but the shock is enough to make him drop Fili.

“Fili!” screams Kili, running to where his brother has fallen. Fili is no fool, and had the good sense to roll as he landed. He is on his feet again in a moment, clutching his limp left arm and grimacing as both brothers run back towards Thorin and Dwalin.

The orcs are swarming down towards them, screaming with rage. Orcrist swings through meat and bone, cutting them down, and always more surge forwards to take their place. Before long Azog is before Thorin, black blood oozing from his injured eye, roaring as he raises his mace. Dwalin’s axe slams into the back of Azog’s leg, and the tall Orc falls to one knee, off-balance for just a moment. It is long enough. Thorin raises his sword high and brings it down with all the strength he has, and Azog’s body falls forward with a heavy thud, his head rolling away across the icy stone.

“Where is the Hobbit?” bellows Thorin, staring wildly around the field, but there’s no sign of him. “Where is Bilbo?”

He is nowhere, and yet he must be somewhere, since rocks are still flying through the air, felling Orcs without warning. It is not until the eagles appear that Thorin sees him again, and he could swear the Hobbit materialises out of thin air.

“Thorin!” yells Bilbo, and Thorin runs, seizing their burglar in his arms with relief. When the eagle swoops down to catch them in its claws, they are taken together.


	23. W is for Waiting

Valinor is perfectly lovely, but Bilbo is an old, old Hobbit, and even the Undying Lands can’t give him back his youth. Most days he does not rise from his bed for long.

One morning there is someone at his bedside when he opens his eyes, feeling better than he has in a long while. He blinks, his vision clearer than it should be, but he still doesn’t recognise this rather alarming giant with the flaming beard and golden eyes. The fellow looks rather out of place in a small Elven bedroom.

“Will you come with me?” asks the giant, in a voice like grinding rocks. “It is time, at last.”

Bilbo sits up, and understands at once. There’s no pain in his joints, or tiredness, and he looks down at his hands to see them smooth and unlined once more. He’s even wearing his favourite dark-red jacket, the one he lost in Dale nearly a century before. 

“Are you Aulë?” he asks. “Only, I was rather expecting your wife.”

Aulë grunts. “She sent me. Come.” 

Bilbo follows him out of the door, but not into the corridor he has come to know so well. He finds himself in a hall much like Erebor would have been, he imagines, if he had ever seen it restored, golden and sparkling and ringing with activity on all sides. His heart leaps.

“Master Baggins,” says a wonderful, sweetly familiar voice, and Bilbo turns with a cry to wrap his arms around a warm, strong body and bury his face into the fall of dark hair. 

“I have been waiting. You took a long while, for a Hobbit,” says Thorin, smiling more delightedly than Bilbo ever saw in life.

“Well,” sniffs Bilbo, grinning back. “At least I didn’t get lost.”


	24. X is for a Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to do X for X-rated, but tbh I'd prefer to keep the rating on this as it is. Maybe I'll upload that one on its own later. ;)

It is past two months since the Battle of the Five Armies, as they are now calling it, and still the King Under the Mountain sleeps. At first, Bilbo had readily agreed to stay until Thorin was awake, but with each day that passes, Oin seems less and less hopeful that it will happen, and Bilbo can’t bear the thought that they’re actually waiting for Thorin to die.

The snow has mostly melted in the plains, and there are even a few green shoots here and there. Everything is healing, apparently, except Thorin. The mountain passes will be clear, and Gandalf has offered to travel with Bilbo back to the Shire, so there’s no real reason to stay any more.

With his pack on his shoulders and his shield strapped to his back, Bilbo pauses outside the door to the King’s chambers. He just wants to say goodbye, even if Thorin will not hear it. 

“Oin?” he calls, pushing the door open. “Oin, are you...?”

Oin sits by the King’s side, head bowed, and Bilbo realises he’s asleep too, although snoring loudly enough that it’s probably just a nap. He steals over to Thorin’s bedside. The King looks peaceful enough, though he’s getting far too skinny and all his thick muscle has begun to waste away.

“I’m going,” Bilbo says quietly. “I’ll miss you, even asleep, like this. I wanted to say sorry, for the whole Arkenstone thing, and thank you, for letting me join you on this quest. It didn’t turn out quite how we wanted, but I’m glad I met you. I always will be.”

That should cover it, thinks Bilbo, but then again perhaps it doesn’t, not quite, not if this is the last time he will ever see Thorin. He leans down and very gently kisses Thorin’s mouth.

When he draws back, the King has not moved. It’s only when Thorin’s gaze shifts from the ceiling to Bilbo’s face that he even realises Thorin’s eyes have opened.

“Thorin!” exclaims Bilbo, loud enough to wake Oin too, which is lucky because he has no intention of kissing Oin.

“Bilbo,” says Thorin, his voice creaky with long lack of use, and reaches across to grasp his arm with a trembling hand. “You’re going?”

Bilbo laughs, happier than he can remember being in his whole life. 

“No,” he says, throwing off his pack and shield at once, letting them clatter to the floor. “Not now, I’m not.”


	25. Y is for Yavanna

Yavanna is unhappy. Is there nothing of her creation which her husband’s cannot take from her? First it was her trees, now it is her Hobbits. She has very little sympathy when he grumbles about Woodland Elves invading his halls, given that Bilbo Baggins has also chosen to reside there, and she was so very much looking forward to welcoming him to her pastures.

Yavanna sweeps through the doors of Aulë’s halls, the trail of sprouting flowers that follows her stopping abruptly as she crosses the stone threshold. She has come for tea.

Bilbo’s manners remain impeccable, despite the company he keeps, and his sense of humour is refreshing. It took barely a decade until he could stop stammering and bowing at her, and now their occasional conversations are more like gossip. She finds it quite new and delightful, and only wishes it did not have to take place amongst dead stones. Bilbo agrees when she mentions it, then claps a hand across his mouth in fear. He is still afraid she will whisk him away with her when she leaves despite all reassurance to the contrary. 

Yavanna ponders. Is she not Valar? And wild, wilder than any of her kin at that, except perhaps Ulmo. She it was who dared create the Hobbits, even knowing Eru’s sorrow over her husband’s impatiently devised Dwarves. She defied Mandos, insisting that those who wished to enter another’s Halls should be admitted, of whatever race. And now it was high time she did a little defying of her husband.

She lays a hand upon the stone beside her, thoughtfully, and Bilbo watches in astonishment as small pale tendrils begin to interrupt the mortar between them. Within moments, a writhing mat of greenery has spread across the floor, and over a wall, until at length there is a terrible cracking sound and the stone is rent asunder in a cloud of grey dust. 

“Bilbo!” cries a deep voice, and his Dwarf is in the doorway, crossing the room in quick strides to reach Bilbo’s side. He appears first panic-stricken, and then pleasingly awed. Perhaps he is not so bad, for a Dwarf.

There is sunlight spilling into the room from a wide, elegant terrace that curves outwards into the air, braced on the thick, sturdy trunks of some tree Yavannah will have to name later. Bilbo has tucked his feet up onto his chair, lifting his teacup in some alarm, and she laughs to allay his fears.

“Much better,” she says. “A garden.”

“My Lady,” says Bilbo, wide-eyed, clutching at the hand of his Dwarf beside him. Understanding dawns across his face, and he begins to smile with delight. “How can I ever thank you?”

Yavannah leans over to inspect her own cup. “More tea?”


	26. Z is for Zzz...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO, SO MUCH to everyone who has commented and/or left kudos! You're all wonderful.

Bilbo stays up past bedtime, lost in his books, and Thorin has learned that it is better to distract him if the hour grows too late, or deal with a foul-tempered Hobbit the following day. Luckily, it is a duty he is happy to fulfil.

Bilbo wakes with the dawn, early in Summer, late in Winter. Thorin finds this very strange, rising and retiring every day at the same time, with the discipline of a warrior. On Summer mornings he finds a cup of tea waiting at his bedside when he opens his eyes, and in Winter, he will sit quietly in bed until the sun rises, watching Bilbo sleep, unwilling to disturb him.

Thorin’s hair spreads across his pillows and sometimes gets into Bilbo’s mouth. Bilbo doesn’t mind, of course. It’s when he pulls a long black or silver strand from his armpit or the crack of his arse that it unnerves him slightly.

Bilbo has a most endearing snore. It doesn’t arise until Bilbo mentions in passing how annoying he had found it on the quest, to be surrounded by honking Dwarves every night. He’d remarked how glad he was that Thorin does not, and declared himself sure that no Hobbit would ever be so horribly noisy.

When Thorin points out that Bilbo does, in fact, snore, his husband is very fetchingly flustered by the news. “It’s a little snore,” protests Thorin soothingly. “Like a baby goat.” He receives a pillow in the face for his pains.

Thorin is warm in his sleep, and lies very still. In Winter, Bilbo can tuck his cold feet under Thorin’s wide, muscled calves and the Dwarf will endure it without complaint. It’s delicious. In Summer, Bilbo casts the sheets aside, sometimes even pulls his nightshirt off entirely in his sleep, overheated and damp with sweat, because his unconscious self will not allow him to lie beside Thorin without pressing up close to his skin.

Neither one of them is much troubled by dreams, or nightmares, or wakeful nights. Their sleep is deep and peaceful, safe in each other’s arms.


End file.
